


My Love (is like a red red rose)

by orphan_account



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: (racing point high school), Falling In Love, High School AU, I dont know how to tag help, Lance is Cute, Light Angst, M/M, RPHS, Roses, also art, american highschool ish but im british so like, and nicky is kinda badass, bear with me, because be gay do crime, because why not, esteban ocon and daniil kyvat appear as lance's bffs, graffiti!!, in this fic he is, is lawrence stroll a bad father??, lance calls himself a coward a lot, little bit of self hate, lots and lots of graffiti, lots of roses, miscommunication? ish, piano!!, science nerd lance, self doubt, slowly, twitch gang rock up too, vigilantism?? but like not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:35:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24542464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Racing Point High School had a problem.A problem with many different names, depending on who you spoke to.According to the faculty, referring specifically to Principal Stroll, it was a vandalism problem.To the student body, it was more of a vigilante problem.In actuality, to the student body, it wasn’t a problem at all.It was a solution.ORNicholas does graffiti and Principal Stroll is mad about it.Lance catches Nicholas mid graffiting one day.and they fall in love. obviously.but we'll get to that.
Relationships: lance stroll/nicholas latifi
Comments: 38
Kudos: 56





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> well  
> this is going to be FUN  
> i would like to say a quick thank you to everyone who sent me graffiti photos  
> vv much appreciated, they were lovely!  
> fun fact, i was mid way through planning this when i realised  
> GRAFFITI LATIFI  
> anyway  
> please enjoy!  
> see you in the end notes x

Racing Point High School had a problem. 

A problem with many different names, depending on who you spoke to.

According to the faculty, referring specifically to Principal Stroll, it was a vandalism problem.

To the student body, it was more of a vigilante problem. 

In actuality, to the student body, it wasn’t a problem at all. 

It was a solution.

Whatever you referred to it as, problem or solution, vandalism or vigilantism, it happened. It happened in irregular bursts. Sometimes it would happen daily, a new occurrence for each day, multiple in a row, a staccato beat of short sharp sights. Sometimes, weeks, months would pass, with only one or two signs of heartbeat spikes to show that the perpetrator had not faded out of existence all together. 

  
  


Whoever it was, whatever their reasons, one thing never failed. No matter how long it had been since the last time, days, weeks, months. No matter what the message of the piece was, if there was no message at all, no matter where it was, no matter what colours were used.

No matter.

Each and every piece of graffiti was beautiful.

Some were understated and simple, quiet undercurrents of defiance that spoke in solemn, brave tones, stark against the mix of metal, brick or paint it lay against. Some were riots of colour and noise, explosive shouts of exuberance and joy and the proud confidence that calls out _I am here, I am not afraid, and I am not going away._ Happy confusion of overlying lines and shades and smudges, neat and concise and precise flicks and edges, swirls and slashes and spots and scrawls. Clarity and chaos, side by side, jumbled together in a random mix of wildly alternating artworks. The styles and moods would fluctuate with each appearance, each as quixotically unpredictable as the last.

But each and every piece of art was beautiful.

Sometimes, they would be transparent, simple doodles or complex designs, thrown up with nothing more to say than what they were. A trailing chain of daisies looped over the lockers by the gym, a mural of galaxies spinning in cosmic beauty in the hall near the science block, a luminescent pillowing jellyfish bobbing outside the swimming pool doors. No ulterior motives. No underlying message. Just what they were, art of the unpretentious, art for the fun of it all, art to be taken at face value.

Often, they had a message.

Like the time a pair of shoulders freckled in multicolour had appeared outside the lost and found office, which housed a temporary new wardrobe for unfortunate students, after Sophia Cameron had been sent home for wearing a top with spaghetti straps, in apparent violation of the dress code. Or the time a sweeping pair of angel wings lay slashed in bruising colours across the wall opposite the social studies classroom after discussions of mental health had been struck off the curriculum for younger students, having been deemed too distressing. On the curve of the arch of the wings, stencilled in blocked writing that many missed at first glance, were the words _mental health knows no age,_ carved in silvery black across both wings. The same statement spiralled softly out over and over again, embedded into intricately etched out feathers. 

Even the colourful bouncing letters, dotted all along the paving to the lunch hall, spelling out _cracked_ in jovial red warning patches, had a message. Bold in red, they labelled all the broken sections of pathway that the school still refused to fix. Midway through the path lay the jutting lip of the paving stone that Juan Manuel Correa had tripped over last autumn. Here, the ceaseless pattern of annotated cracks changed. _Broken_ was instead spelled out in a cloud block of yellow, before merging back on to the frequent red sequence of _cracked._

A litany of others had graced the school grounds, blossoming overnight, fading from physical view after the furious work of the janitorial team, remaining clear and bright in the excited chatter of the curious current of students. The ebbing flow of student attention lay fixed on their mysterious artist, and the second a piece was discovered, the whole school would rise in a babbling rush of stream to discuss the new found work. Favourites were hotly debated, as were morals, and motives. Conversations of churning white water raged over the breaking rocks that were each piece, but in general, the majority of the student body agreed. Whoever was doing this was a fucking _legend._

Most of the time, the unnamed hero of RPHS would stick to lockers and pathways.

(on one memorable occasion, the school bins had received a makeover, in the form of a highly unflattering yet still accurate portrait of Dr Marko)

Even doors were acceptable. Fair game, even in the disapproving eyes of self righteous students, considering that these places were less permanent.

In other words, they were places easily cleaned or repaired or removed.

From time to time, however, the artist would branch out. Walls were a good place to put the messages that needed to be heard. The messages that shouldn’t be covered up so easily. The messages that caused the student body to whisper and giggle, smirks in eyes and faces as finally, finally somebody spoke up against every unfair rule thrust upon Racing Point High School.

On those occasions, Principal Stroll would wind his hard face in further still, jaw tightened and fists clenched and strained, popping in sinuous anger, and his eyes, ever cold, would turn six degrees colder. His mouth would curl up, an uncontrolled whip of harsh disdain, bottled up into a hard line. Sometimes, when the spike of activity jagged up to its peak, when new pieces appeared daily, when the hum of gossip and buzz grew too loud, the PA system would ping on.

The impassive face in neatly cut suits and cold eyes would walk into an assembly.

Principal Stroll would spit out his disdain in slow, regulated words, carefully calculated and icily cold.

Speeches about vulgar paintings and appalling lapses in behaviour. About maintaining high standards and the damage they were causing. About inadvertent consequences and counterproductivity. After all, if the school had to deal with vandalism all the time, they couldn’t spend any time resolving the issues they brought up. About insensitive messages and subpar artwork, anyway.

Speeches in assemblies, over the PA system, in the car on the way home from school.

About churlishness, childishness, and the absence of any real skill or talent. A desperate cry for attention, since the graffiti wasn’t good enough to receive recognition any other way. 

A firestorm of cold ice and reserved anger and assailing overbearance.

Before subsiding into a period of quiet, in which the school body collectively gathered its breath, and let it out again. A period in which the students would begin to murmur uneasily that maybe this was really it this time. Maybe there would be no more graffiti. A period in which students would sigh and move on, continuing with a mild detached disappointment, and a shrug of _oh well, it was fun while it lasted._ A period in which Principal Stroll’s frame would relax its rigid structure slightly, and regain its collected composure. 

Before another piece would appear, after which the buzz would fire up with a vengeance, RPHS’s gossip circles would spring back to theorising over potential secret artists and obsessing over colour choice after deviating into whatever was happening between Charles Leclerc and Max Verstappen that week, and the cycle would kick off again.

And the differing opinions would clash and collide once more, in praise and condemnation, awe and disgust, jubilation and dismay, admiration and criticism. Principal Stroll thought they were an abomination. Art teacher Mr Hamilton would quietly admit to certain members of his class he found them interesting, and could often be found surveying them discreetly with approval. Mrs Williams, the business teacher, thought they were well intentioned, but ill advised, and Mr Horner over in history just thought they were a nuisance. Lando Norris, who ran a blog followed by the majority of the school, was fervently in favour of the graffitied guardian, and as in most things, a large number of the student body agreed with his verdict. There were, of course, several students who disagreed, whether out of a desire to seem contrary or in an attempt to swot, it was unclear. There was an even smaller portion of pupils who claimed to not have an opinion, preferring instead to keep their heads down and their noses out. 

Lance, not that he would ever, ever dream of telling his father this, thought that it was kind of cool.

Something that would have taken a lot of people, once they remembered Lance was there, by surprise. If not for his quiet favour amongst teachers, and his good boy demeanour, then surely the fact that he was Principal Stroll’s son would have marked him down to be against it all.

But he liked it.

And alright, so maybe Lance didn’t know a lot about art. Couldn’t tell you about ingenious composition, and avant garde colour choices, or whatever it was Mr Hamilton would dreamily mutter about under his breath. His field of expertise was more lab books and protective goggles, more dissections and chemicals than colourwheels and blocking techniques. Maybe he couldn’t state why the texture of the pieces was so innovative, or explain why the contrast of elements used gave subtle notations of the emotions of the work.

But he had eyes, and a heart, and in the end, Lance didn’t really care that he didn’t understand _why_ the graffiti made him feel something.

All that really mattered is that the graffiti _did_ make him feel something.

Not that he would ever, ever dream of telling his father this.

If asked, Lance supposed he would make some vague noise about how he _hadn’t really noticed it,_ that it was _all a bit stupid really,_ and how _that stuff doesn't really interest me anyway._

The old drill of ignorance, a non-committal statement, and a follow up confirmation of obliviousness. What was necessary was a good balance between feigned disinterest and bland response, edged with a subtle nudge in the direction of whatever his father wanted to hear.

Lance was an expert at telling his father things he wanted to hear without ever actually telling him anything at all. With a force like Lawrence Stroll, it was just easier. Give him what he wants, then fade back into the shadows of his subconscious. It was easier to live out of the gaze of those icy eyes. Out of the spotlight glare of his father’s attention.

No that it was really relevant anyway.

His father never asked.

When he did, it was only to reaffirm his own misconceptions of his son. To confirm that Lance was doing alright, averaging B plus with A’s in sciences, that he still had his midfield place on the baseball team, working hard but not too hard in class. Still playing piano tolerably well, still undecided about his future. A conscientious student, an unexceptional athlete, a mediocre musician. 

Average.

(disappointing, Lance had always suspected)

Lance always got the feeling that most of the conversations he had with his father were underscored with disappointment.

Mild, maybe, but still disappointment. And sometimes, when Lance brought home another tolerable report card, or turned in another forgettable performance on the pitch, played another passable piano piece at the school lunchtime concerts that no one goes to -

Maybe a little disdain.

A half-hearted _well done,_ before turning his attention to matters worth his time.

It would sting, if he wasn’t used to it. 

(still does, when he turns to his father, a pleased smile on his face, proud of his efforts, to be met with a turned shoulder and an indifferent face)

And yeah, it still twinged to know that despite his best efforts, his father will never see him as anything more than _average._

But it wasn’t as bleak as he had made it out to be

But from time to time, his father will look down on him with a smile. From time to time, his eyes would thaw momentarily with a dim pride. From time to time, as his family sits round the table for dinner, and talks, and laughs, as his father’s eyes _sparkle_ \- 

Lance thought that that could be enough.

He could live with being a mild disappointment.

He could live with his father thinking he was mediocre.

He could live for those brief moments of expressed pleasure.

Those brief moments of paternal pride.

He could live with the interminable, unconfirmed disappointment.

As long as his father noticed him at all.

So Lance let him. Let his father measure him to his standard. 

(tried not to let the swooping lurch of falling short get to him too much)

Lance let his father usher him towards the side, to an unremarkable career in an unremarkable field, maybe in some office somewhere, in business or perhaps low level politics, even when everything in him pointed towards humming labs and glassware, towards green leaves and anatomical diagrams, to science, not humanities.

Lance let it happen.

It was easier.

Lance suspects that he may be a bit of a coward. 

But it’s easier not to think of that.

Easier not to think about why having open heart surgery without anaesthetic sounds more appealing to him than telling his father how he really feels about something.

Instead he occupies himself with the rather loud and rather alarming crash he hears coming round through the Concourse, the outdoor passage between the science and history blocks. Now, alarming crashes coming from the Concourse were not unusual, given this was where the majority of the student body hung out during mid-morning and lunch breaks. Here was the site of all fistfights, illicit dealings and gossip sessions. Here was the site of footballs smashing into windows, bins being set on fire and friendships forged and broken. If something were to happen resulting in a crash, it would happen in the Concourse. So, the crash itself was not alarming.

The fact that it was happening at 5:53 pm on a school night, a time well after the outpour of homebound students had ended, was more alarming. Final bell had gone, all clubs packed up and finished. Even those stuck in the confines of detention would have made their escape a long time ago.

Meaning the Concourse should be empty.

Meaning there should have been no one there to make that noise.

Even Lance should’ve walked home ages ago, but he was still clinging on to the vain hope that his father wouldn’t be much longer. Lawrence Stroll had promised to give his son a lift home, promised they could talk a little in the car. But then there was something about an after school meeting and a bit of paperwork, and _ah, you’re still here. You wouldn’t mind waiting, would you Lance? Good boy._

All without a pause for breath.

_Close the door on your way out, Lance_

So Lance had wandered over to the science department. 

(like he usually did when his father pulled something like this)

Sat in the empty biology lab, with its colourful displays and neat shelves, and serene atmosphere.

He knew Mr Bottas wouldn’t mind.

Had in fact kept him company while he packed up before he too headed off home.

He’d half-heartedly done a bit of homework in the quiet air of the lab once he realised his father wasn’t going to take less than ten minutes. Then pushed it aside with the same discontented restlessness that caused him to take it out in the first place. He’d spent the last half an hour aimlessly scrolling through his phone and absent mindedly drumming his fingers against the cool desktops in a softly tapping pattern. Wondering if it wasn’t time to just call it a day and head back home on foot.

And then the crash.

And the lingering fingers of fuzzing dullness and boredom dissipated along with it.

Lance sat up, alert and aware.

_Should he go check it out? -_

A second crash echoed out, quieter than the first, more of a thump than anything else, and a scuffling noise followed. 

Lance was up on his feet before he realised it. He headed over to the window, before hesitating and turning around. The positioning of the window combined with the angles of the school walls meant he wouldn’t be able to see down to the source of the noise. But if he left the classroom and took a right, he’d be able to cut down through the staff staircase and take a shortcut to the secondary fire door leading right into the Concourse. 

So Lance made his way down, feet occasionally emitting isolated scuffs and squeaks against the linoleum floor, disturbingly piercing in the ringing quiet of after school hours. Past the secondary biology lab, past the lab technician’s office, through into the staff staircase. Down the square twist of stairs, two steps at a time, using the handrail as a boost, hasty in a rough, bouncing way, yet almost noiseless. Through the push door at the bottom of the stairs, out into the ground floor corridor of the science block, and there, on his left. 

The fire door. 

Not wired to sound the alarm if opened, despite the green and white lettering warning otherwise. 

Principal Stroll had had that switched off after one too many footballs smacking into the glass resulted in one too many visits from the fire station. The majority of the student body hadn’t known, realised or cared about the change. If they once did, they had since forgotten anyway. 

Lance hadn’t. It had put his father into a foul mood and ruined family dinner that night. While his father had glowered stonily at the head of the table, Lance had unconsciously filed the knowledge away. It was useful to know these things, for the days where he wanted to be more invisible than usual, for the days he wanted to slip away unobserved.

Lance stopped in front of the door. For a second, he wondered if his ears had been deceiving him, and then he heard the unmistakable, if muffled, sounds of hastily bitten off swear words, and a small thud.

Before he could doubt himself any further, and question whether going out to confront whoever was making the noise was a particularly good idea, Lance opened the door. 

Smoothly, quietly, he stepped out and advanced in hesitant steps around the corner. Just past the jutting block of concrete lay the chained links fencing off the Concourse from the outside world, shielded from the main road by the bottleneck passage of the buildings.

And just before the fence, dusting off his knees and picking up a black canvas bag, was Nicholas Latifi.

Lance couldn’t help himself. He stared.

Nicholas Latifi. Six foot tall, brown hair brown eyes, and kind of slightly fucking gorgeous. Lance had seen him around a couple of times, but owing to their contrasting class schedules, had never really had much interaction with him. Certainly never spoken to him before, anyway. 

But he’d heard of him.

Heard of how he’d argued with Mr Abiteoul about the inclusion of more books written by women and people of colour in the English curriculum, and had been so stubborn about it that he’d lost his temper and put Nicholas in detention for refusing to back down.

Heard how he’d decked the boys picking on a younger kid on his very first day at the school, earning him a black eye, a suspension and instant in-school notoriety. Heard that if you wanted weed, he and his friends knew how to get some. 

(granted, so did half of Lance’s schoolmates, but still)

Stubborn to a fault, with a strong set of morals. Unafraid to stand up for what he believed in. The darling of Mrs Williams politics set. Intimidating, in a leather jacket and scuffed boots, but constantly undermined by ever present small acts of kindness. A sincerely spoken compliment here, a sunshine soft smile there. 

Openly bisexual.

Unflinchingly, unshrinkingly himself.

(and that terrified Lance more than he could ever say)

(that intrigued Lance more than he could ever say)

Maybe that was why instead of turning away and shrinking back into the shadows of the door frame -

Lance remained where he was.

Remained where he was, and didn’t move as Nicholas hefted the bag to his shoulder, walked to the far side of the empty Concourse walls, behind the rows of benches. Didn’t move as he opened the bag, and pulled out a can. Didn’t move even when Nicholas’ eyes flicked up and caught his own. Even when Nicholas’ eyes grew large and wide, and the can he held dropped to his side, hidden too late in the folds of his ratty black hoodie. 

He stayed.

Because he was _curious._

If he could look back on himself, he might have muttered something about _curiosity_ and _cats._

As it was, he just stayed still.

Frozen.

In fairness, Nicholas was too.

(frozen, that is)

Weirdly, it was Lance who broke the silence.

“Uh, hello,” he said stupidly, and then immediately wished he hadn’t.

_Who says hello to somebody they’ve just caught breaking into school? To somebody they’ve just caught about to vandalise the school?_

_But this is Nicholas,_ one side of his brain whispered, _you’ve heard good things about him. Besides, you like the graffiti._

_Not all good things,_ responded the second part of his brain sourly, _and_ _father will hate you if he found out you knew who it was,_ and Lance, Lance was so **_confused_** _._

By this time, Nicholas had lost the edges of his deer in the headlights look. It wasn’t gone, not by a long shot, but he’d lost the raw panic that had initially flashed through his features.

“Hey,” he replied, his tone a blind man’s stab in the dark at breezy nonchalance.

“So uh, this looks kinda bad, doesn’t it. Um, promise you it’s not what it looks like, I uh, I just needed to find something I left here, and uh, I needed it for tonight so I couldn’t just wait.”

Lance just nodded slightly, and rubbed his palms against the side of his trousers self consciously. 

“What were you going to paint this time?” he said quietly, tentatively. With an uplift to his head that would almost be challenging if Lance had an inch of confrontation in his bones. 

Nicholas didn’t answer. Instead, his mouth flapped open a couple of times, before he swallowed and spoke up.

“Listen, uh, Lance right?”

Lance nodded briefly, and he continued.

“I never meant to hurt anyone by doing this. I’ve never done anything malicious or with bad intentions. I’ve only ever done graffiti that I thought could help, stuff that I thought could make a difference, or, I don’t know, even just make someone smile. I mean, this school has some pretty fucked up rules, and uh, I mean, I guess at least this way we get their attention right? Show them that they can’t just do whatever they want and expect us to do jack shit about it. I just, this was all just to show people we can make a change. So, uh yeah, I guess just. Please don’t tell your dad about this.” He laughed humourlessly, lips curled up in a sheepish smile, arm stretching up to rub the back of his neck.

And something in Lance solidified without him knowing it. Some infinitesimal change so small as to be unnoticeable even to himself. 

But it happened.

Lance met Nicholas’ eyes. Met them in the calm of a held breath of anticipation, but not entirely sure what they were anticipating.

“I’m not going to tell my dad,” Lance said, measured in an unfamiliar certainty.He looked down suddenly, down at his shoes, at the tufted blades of grass poking through the cracked lines of tarmac, at the pebbles kicked up from rowdy feet. 

“You, uh, you made _me_ smile, with the,” he gestured slightly, an aborted movement with his hand at his side, “the art y’know,” and he risked a look upward with a shy smile before immediately ducking his head back down. 

When he resurfaced again, Nicholas was still staring at him. The stare had shifted somewhat since they had first realised each other’s presence, from _ah shit I’m going to get expelled_ to _at least it was for something I believed in_ to -

To an expression that Lance didn’t really know how to decipher.

But Lance figured he’d gotten this far, so he summoned up a breath, and said again, “What are you going to paint this time?”

Nicholas’ eyes blinked. A quizzical look entered his eyes, as if he was reappraising everything about Lance, and couldn’t quite believe it. And slowly, a sunshine grin started to blossom over his face. A grin with a hint of incredulity, some happiness and a whole lot of warmth. Lance, seeing his expression change, felt his own insides glow a little, and a small, hesitant smile crossed his own face in shy response. 

Nicholas turned back to the wall and Lance stepped up to his side. 

“I don’t actually know, I didn’t plan this one,” he shrugged, “was just going to paint the first thing that came into my head.”

He turned his head slightly to look at Lance. “You’re really okay with me doing this?”

Lance tilted his own head and scrunched up his nose without meaning to. “I think what you're doing is good. It’s important. I mean, I’m well aware my dad doesn’t make the best rules. And you’re really talented, so, uh, yeah. Um.” Lance faltered, stumbling over his words, unfortunately aware of a pinking blush creeping over his cheeks. Nicholas’ smile grew a little more. 

Lance was somewhat blinded by the force of that smile, so it took him a little moment to catch up when Nicholas turned back to the wall. It was in fact the metallic _click click click_ of a briskly shaken can that brought him out of his reverie. Lance was grateful for the extra second of time to gather his thoughts, ready for when Nicholas threw over his shoulder a casual “so, you gonna stick around while I do this?”

An extra second, while helpful, was still only a second.

And that question had thrown Lance for a loop. 

For a moment, his doubts resurfaced, and he wondered what exactly it was he was doing there with the boy who’d caused his father so much trouble in the past and was apparently set on doing it again. 

But then he heard that smooth rattle again, that seductive _click click click,_ saw the arching swoop of a firm line in a steady hand. 

Lance was hooked.

His father would never know. It was likely that he’d be in there for another half hour at least, so it wasn’t like he’d notice where Lance was. Besides, it was only _graffiti._ Hardly a capital offence. 

And Lance was curious.

(curiosity killed the cat)

_(but satisfaction brought it back)_

“Well, yeah if you uh, if you don’t mind. I’d like to stay.”

Lance was again looking down at the ground at that moment. Lucky for him. If he’d caught Nicholas’ eye right then, the smile on his face would have blinded Lance for sure.

For a quiet instant, all was still. The only sound was the dull swish swish spray of canned paint streaking the pockmarked walls, leaving a curved smear of colour behind. Somewhere beyond the fence, a car passed by, tell tale in the faint rumble it left reverberating in the air. The rapid metallic _click click click_ for a few instants, before subsiding back again into a peaceful swoosh. 

It was Nicholas who broke the silence, keeping his voice down and even, dreamlike in quality, slotting perfectly into the serene atmosphere that had blossomed in the still afternoon air between two dingy school walls. 

“How did you know someone was out here,” to which Lance snorted. 

“You weren’t exactly stealthy,” he said, “you climbing over that fence sounded like someone had rolled a hippo in potassium then dropped it in water.”

Nicholas let out a startled breath, shaking his head in surprised laughter.

“Alright, I could have been more graceful over the fence, I’ll give you that,” he grinned, eyes glimmering, hands resuming their sketching spray on the wall beyond. 

Lance hesitated for a moment.

Then made up his mind.

“You know you didn’t have to go over the fence right? There’s a side door over by the English department that Mr Abiteoul uses for his smoke breaks. It’s always open, and there's no cameras.”

Nicholas stopped spraying. He turned to face Lance. “That leaves me stuck in the English department though.” A statement, but in his eyes a questioning tone.

“Not if you go into Mr Perez’s room. He always leaves the window wide open, something about fresh air or something. Getting in and out of that window is a lot easier than climbing over the fence.”

Once again, Nicholas’ eyes fixed piercingly onto Lance. Examining. Reappraising. Curious.

Lance cleared his throat uncomfortably, and shifted from foot to foot.

“Are you going to say anything Nicholas?” he asked, mostly to fill the silence. It was uncanny rather than comfortable now, in the absence of the gentle background of spraying paint.

Slowly, his face gave way into a smile, like the sun emerging from behind a cloud, and Nicholas laughed, short and sweet, carefree in joyous tones.

“You’ve just given me a way to easily get into school without breaking my back over that fucking fence,” he said, eyes dancing with a steady warmth. “You can call me Nicky.”

*

Nicky was about three quarters of the way through with his latest piece when Lance’s phone rang. The boys had been talking and laughing as Nicky worked, Lance finding it surprisingly easy to fall into conversation with him. Occasionally, the chat would stutter and fall, leaving both to lapse into silence, but every time the conversation flagged, it would soon spark up again in one direction or another. Lance couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed a conversation with an almost stranger like this before. Couldn’t remember the last time he’d talked so easily with somebody he’d pretty much just met properly for the first time. Sure, there were a couple of awkward jags as they talked, but considering how few there were compared to usual, Lance counted it as a definite win.

And then Lance’s phone rang, and Lance was startled out of his seat near the wall by the caller id. 

“It’s my dad,” he said, a sprig of dismay blossoming in his chest. “Guess it’s time to go.”

Once Lance had told his father he’d see him out front, he got to his feet and looked up at the wall Nicky had been working on.

“Like it?”

He looked over to the direction of the voice and smiled. “Yeah,” he responded simply, letting the honest expression on his face do the talking for him.

“Y’know, if you like this one, you’d really like this one I did on Maranello Street. You’d have to check it out some time.”

“Where is Maranello Street again?” Lance asked. It sounded vaguely familiar, but Lance didn’t think he’d ever been.

Nicky smirked, then gestured for Lance’s phone. When he handed it back, the contacts page was open, and a new number had been saved under the name Nicky, followed by a purple heart. “I’ll take you there,” said Nicky, and Lance, like a complete fool, Lance just stood there and gaped as his brain rebooted. Once he’d recovered, he stammered out a response, complete with a blush and a shy smile, then hurriedly turned to go.

As he left, his mind's eye recalled the scene half completed on the wall of the Concourse.

A rose, resplendent in shy pinks and dainty pastels, newly emerging in the coyness of spring. Delicate, winding, blushing. 

Lance thought it might have been his favourite graffiti to date.

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again  
> i didn't proof read this   
> and it aint good  
> but i wanted to post something so yeah  
> maybe not the maranello date you deserved, but it's the one u got  
> big thanks to lafitiism on tumblr for being so nice about this fic  
> sorry i ruined it lol  
> see you in the end notes x

Dr Marko was known to be one of the most intimidating teachers. He had a reputation for his ruthless classroom manner, and borderline cruel attitude towards his students. If you were to announce to a general assembly of RPHS students that you were taking senior Chemistry, or that you had been assigned room 31 for tutor period, you would immediately be met with hisses of winced sympathy, and bombarded with an array of ghoulishly delighted scare stories. As for the poor souls fated to spend both tutor period and Chemistry lessons with him, they were met with a soldier’s salute and a grimaced round of  _ good luck  _ from all around.

Lance, sadly, was one of those unfortunate souls.

Esteban was luckier, in that although he hadn’t dodged the bullet entirely, he had at least avoided the bludgeoning of senior chemistry. Still, he was more than aware of Marko’s bloody regime, having suffered alongside Lance in tutor for some time now. 

So why Esteban chose now, as Marko’s baleful glare swept over the rows of desks like a policeman’s spotlight just waiting to spot a minimal misdemeanour, to nudge Lance’s elbow and whisper loudly about the new graffiti in the Concourse was completely beyond Lance. 

But that was Esteban. A bundle of no self preservation and impulsive nerves, wrapped up into the frame of a newborn giraffe.

Thankfully, Marko’s back had been turned at that specific moment, or things may have ended very differently. As it was, Esteban kept his life for a little longer. 

(although maybe for not much longer, since Lance was going to strangle Este with his bare hands if he talked about the rose one more time)

And Este, despite the lack of survival skills, and apparent absence of volume control, wasn’t stupid. 

He knew something was up. 

Another important fact about Esteban.

He was a stubborn little shit.

And by lunchtime, Lance had told him everything. 

Este sat across from him in the lunch hall, plastic fork dangling from his hand, eyes fixed onto Lance’s. Beside him sat Daniil, steadily munching his ways through his mountain of

chips, occasionally sending a sneaky flick of his hand sideways to swipe some of Este’s chips. Daniil had been a good addition to their friend group - constant, unwavering Daniil, always ready to act as the voice of reason. Really, Lance had only held out for so long against Este’s persistent badgering because he only saw Daniil at lunch today, and he hadn’t wanted to go through the story twice. 

There was silence, for a moment, as Lance finished speaking. Silence, and then Este.

There was never silence for long with Este about. “So he gave you his number? Just like that?” began Este, plastic fork in hand wavering wildly in dangerous proximity to Daniil’s face. “And did he text? Did you text  _ him _ ?” he demanded, and jumped as Lance’s face shifted through ten different expressions at once. “You  _ did _ ! Oh my god, you did, didn’t you? What did you say? Have you figured out times for your Maranello date? Did you send nudes?” 

Lance spluttered and Daniil swiped another chip.

“ _ No,  _ we didn’t, and for fucks sake Este, keep your voice  _ down,”  _ hissed Lance, now an alarming shade of red, having finished choking on his drink. 

Daniil smirked. “But you wanted to, didn’t you,” he said, and Lance really, really hated his friends sometimes. 

He glared at Daniil. “You guys,” he said, mutinously picking up his burger, “are awful,” he finished, muffled as he took a bite.

And it didn’t stop there.

Lance suffered throughout the whole of lunch, doing his best to survive under the heavy bombardment of Este’s whisper-shouted questions and Daniil’s wagging eyebrows. Against his will, he found himself laughing at his friends’ ridiculous insinuations and eager questions, and couldn’t control his smile as he talked about Nick.

And when walking through the crush of students thronging through the halls, spotting Nick over the crowds, when Nicky caught his eye and smiled, bright and beaming, when Lance lifted his hand in a slight, shy wave - 

Well.

Safe to say, Este and Daniil didn’t stop snickering for the entirety of lunch break.

*

Lance smiled at his phone and Este groaned. “Nick  _ again _ ?” he said, sniping a sip from Daniil’s milkshake. Once he’d discovered Daniil had stolen the majority of his chips yesterday, war had been unleashed, and petty retaliation took place in any opportunity Este could seize. He took an obnoxious slurp, and grinned when Daniil rolled his eyes. 

Lance blushed, but didn’t look up, mumbling “shut up” in Este’s general vicinity and continuing to type. Este sighed dramatically. “I see how it is, Lance. Now you have your boyfriend, you don’t have time for us anymore. Yeah, no worries, I see how it is.” Lance’s head shot up, and he looked around for two beats to ensure no one had overheard. “That’s not - I’ve talked to him like  _ once,  _ guys, he’s not my  _ boyfriend _ .” Daniil hummed. “Not your boyfriend, but he’s asked you on a date,” he said, studiously calm, a small quirk of his lips betraying his deadpan expression. Lance, stuck trying to formulate a response, flapped his jaw for a few minutes, before giving up and gathering his tray, making his excuses and leaving his two giggling friends behind. 

He exited the lunch hall, stepping over the graffitied cracks, smiling to himself as he imagined the hands that painted them. He wondered whether they’d be soft to hold. Whether they’d be warm, or cold. What they’d feel like in his. Lance shook himself, hurriedly brushing off that train of thought, and stopped at his destination. Outside of the science blocks, the music rooms were some of his favourite places to be. Quiet and cool, they exuded a sense of calm that one could almost sink into. It was a good space to clear your head. 

Lance let the door of practice room 18 close shut behind him, and walked to the piano there. Sitting down, he ran his fingers lightly over the keys, and rested them gently for a moment. He took a breath. Then another.

And another.

Closing his eyes, he counted the beats in his head, and thought of everything that had happened in the past few days. 

He thought of the stifling loneliness of boredom in classes.

He thought of crashing noises and brown startled eyes.

He thought of sunshines smiles and pink spray paint.

He thought of smiles over seas of heads, and of late night text conversations.

He thought of Nicky.

And he played.

He played, stumbling over notes here and there, missing a step, skipping a chord, but he played. Solidly, simply, imperfectly, he played.

He played, and it made him smile, and it was beautiful.

And when he opened his eyes again, he saw Nicky in the doorway, smiling down at him with a soft look in his eyes.

Lance yelped, and jumped in his seat.

Naturally, this made him lose his balance.

Naturally, he almost fell off the seat.

Thankfully, he brought it back, only to see Nicky snickering from the door.

“Alright, alright, I’d like to see you be so slick when someone sneaks up on you,” he grumbled, shifting his body to face Nicky. Nicky stepped in, coming in to sit beside Lance on the piano stool. “Yeah, suppose you're right. Could never be as collected as you were,” he grinned, and Lance snorted, making room for him on the bench. “Shut up,” he muttered, earning him a laugh and a knock on the shoulder. “So what brings you to the music department then,” he asked, looking over his shoulder. Nicky looked away, smiling self consciously, as if laughing at himself at a joke only he knew. “What, a man can’t come listen to music every now and then? Who knows, maybe I’ll even pick up an instrument myself,” he returned, laughter in his eyes. Lance raised an eyebrow. “I swear to god, if you try to pick up this piano right now, I will hit you for making the worst pun ever.” Nicky laughed, loud and bright, and Lance felt ridiculously pleased that his awful joke had made Nicky laugh. “Not a fan of puns then?” he asked, “Shame that. Was going to make my next piece a wall of puns, just for you. Really  _ layer  _ them up you know,  _ cement  _ the fact that I want to make a change,  _ brick by brick -  _ ow!”

Lance wheezed through his giggles, shaking his head and gently bumping his shoulder into Nicky’s. “That was awful and you should be ashamed of yourself.” Nicky just smiled. The soft look was back in his eyes again. “Made you laugh, didn’t it? I won’t be ashamed of that.”

For a moment, they rested there, both smiling stupidly at each other. Lance took in a breath, and looked at the piano. “You know, before you paint some graffiti for me, maybe I should see the one you were telling me about on Maranello Street before.” 

Nicky glowed. “You still want to see that?” and Lance’s insecurities took a breath. He stumbled, said “uh, yeah if that’s still okay with you, right?” 

Nicky beamed. “Of course, I promised I’d take you, remember? Is Saturday good for you?”

Lance could only nod. Nod and smile, and just like that, they were on. 

Times were sorted, and butterflies were rising in his stomach, because was Nicky flirting with him now? He was, he was definitely  _ flirting, _ and Lance couldn’t stop  _ smiling.  _

And then the door flew open, and “Nicky, man, I’ve been looking everywhere for you, you said you’d listen to -” 

And then a pause, and a snicker, and a “nevermind man, we’ll leave you to it,” and George Russell was backing out of the room, followed by a cackling Max Verstappen and the voice of Lando Norris in an unsubtle whisper of “who’s he in there with, who’s he in there with?” as he unsuccessfully tried to peer over the heads of his taller friends. Lance blushed. So did Nicky.

It was horrible.

But it was wonderful at the same time.

*

Saturday came around faster than Lance thought it would. 

Saturday came, and suddenly Lance was knee deep in a sea floor of clothes and he  _ didn’t know what to wear.  _

He didn’t know what to wear, he didn’t know how to act, and worst of all, he didn’t know if this was a date.

This wasn’t a date. It couldn’t be. 

Lance didn’t want it to be a date. He wasn’t ready. He just -  _ couldn’t _ .

But maybe he did? Nicky was  _ nice,  _ and he was funny, and he made Lance’s stomach feel like the world’s population of butterflies had been crammed into his stomach. 

But this was fine, because it wasn’t a date anyway, Nicky was just taking him to see some more of his art.

As friends.

And if there was anything more to it, there wasn’t any time to figure it out, because Saturday came around, and suddenly Lance was standing at the corner of Vasseur Park, phone gripped in one nervously fidgeting hand, waiting for Nicky to show. 

Saturday came around, and so did Nicky, in a car that definitely should not have still been running, a denim jacket and a smile that immediately had Lance fumbling all over himself, getting into the car with a silent wish on an invisible star.

Saturday came around, and Lance made a decision. He took up all his questions, his doubts, and his anxieties about what exactly this was, about what he was doing, about what he was feeling, and he left it at the intersection of Vasseur Park and Neibolt Street **.** He let himself breathe. He let himself _be._

Once they’d arrived at Maranello Street, Lance couldn’t remember why he’d been nervous at all.

They left the car parked at the end of the road, and walked down the street together. Lance felt his hand brush against Nicky’s several times, and absent mindedly thought about what it would be like to grab hold of his hand. It took a concerted effort to not let the automotive feelings of self reproach rise up at this thought, and Lance made his mind go still. He was enjoying himself. He didn’t have to think about it any more than that. 

The road ended in a dead end, with a grassy area around a beaten up statue framed by brick walls marking off the open space. The walls had been tagged and sprayed over in a messy scrawl, the evidence of generations and multitudes of budding artists, defiant kids, and anything in between. One wall had been left clear of this scrambling need to mark the world for their own, of the territorial designs and sprayed names. Instead, it had been covered by red. Red, in blocks and streaks, layered in subtly differentiating shades, a darker stripe of red flush boldly against a lighter gash. At the centre of this red vision lay a yellow cut of a shield, strong against the shifting, motion blurred background. And at the centre of that, lay a horse.

A horse, stood on its hind legs, reared up into the sky, head arched and proud. A horse, black outlined and filled. A silhouette, a shadow, curved into a flying mane and prancing feet, into fetlock and tail. Smooth flanks in ebony, highlighted into muscled curves by gleaming lines of accentuating white. Defined lines of black, detailed flicks of white. Pride was written into every curve and arch, passion in the noble lines of fiery movement, unbridled and uncontrolled. 

Lance was enthralled. 

They spent some time there, at the end of Maranello Street together. Nicky, to Lance’s infinite surprise and delight, had had the foresight to bring snacks, and the pair sat on the grass, in the shade of the beaten up statue, debating over who it was meant to represent. Lance was leaning towards some forgotten dignitary, while Nicky was adamant that it was a leftover fighter pilot from one of the world wars. Eventually, reluctantly, they got to their feet, and started back for the car. As they walked up the street, Nicky jumped up onto the garden wall of one of the houses, and carefully broke off one long stemmed red rose. The painted tiger on the back of his denim jacket rippled as he moved, and Lance was left slightly dumbstruck by the time Nicky presented the rose to him with a flourish. 

“You can’t just take flowers from someone’s garden, Nicky oh my god,” he said, and Nicky shrugged. “It’s one rose, it’s not the end of the world. Besides, it’s Charles who lives there, he won’t mind. You deserve all the flowers there are, Lance,” he grinned, batting his eyelashes and smirking when Lance swatted at him.

Nevertheless, Lance accepted the rose.

Nicky’s smile grew even wider.

That night, there was a new addition to Lance’s bedroom. On the windowsill, next to the dresser, in a tall glass jar filled with water and a sprinkling of plant food, was a long stemmed red rose. Looking at that rose, Lance didn’t think he’d ever been so happy in his life. 

*

And from there, it was a downward spiral. Lunchtimes often found Nicky and Lance together in practice room 18, fooling around, conversation rising and falling in laughter and serious discussion like scales up and down the piano. In the stream of people between lessons, a bubble would occasionally form, a perfect sphere of quickly snatched conversation and smiles. Daniil and Este snickered, but in the brief moments they saw with Nicky, they assessed and appraised, and quietly formed opinions. The conferred conclusion was that any inhibitions they had could be dropped. Lance was free to make his own decisions, and there was nothing malicious about Nicky. Lance would be okay with him. 

And Lance, unaware of his friends’ silent approval, was slowly inching towards the edge of a precipice he was unsure he was ready to fall from. So he did what he always did, he closed his eyes and pretended the fall wasn’t there, pretended that his own feet weren’t tiptoeing him closer and closer to a fall that could leave him broken. He pretended it wasn’t there, and let himself follow what made him happy, with no thought for consequence. So when Nicky introduced him to his friends, Lance let him. When Nicky invited him out to a skatepark with Max, Lando, George and Charles, Lance let him. When Charles did increasingly stupid stunts while Max egged him on in the background, when Lando took pictures of skateboards in moonlight, when Nicky handed him a beer, Lance let him. When the railings and tagged concrete curves glowed under dark skies, and reckless feelings surged and bubbled along the warmth in his stomach, when the night was young, and anything seemed possible, when Nicky’s hand slid into his, Lance let him. When whoops and cries filled the air, when laughter flowed, at each other, at themselves, and the world, when Lando took pictures of quiet smiles and clasped hands,  _ “not for the blog this time, I promise, _ ” Lance let them. When the teasing came thick and fast, when gentle jeering mingled in the air, Lance let them. When Nicky smiled at him, blush still on his cheeks, offhandedly parrying against wolf whistles and smirking grins, Lance let him. 

Lance let himself  _ live. _

(Lance let himself _ love) _

Before long, a new rose had joined the first on the Concourse walls. Only, instead of being newborn pink, this rose was red. A deep, glowing red, that shook itself out into blossoming petals, soft, rich and full. A passionate red, a gentle red, a warm red. A red in full bloom. A strong red rose, happy in the peak of life, beating red like the rhythm of a heart in love.

Lance felt  _ free. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well wasn't that fun  
> stay tuned, maybe you'll get another chapter of graffiti latifi and ya boi lance  
> although maybe not  
> who knows, not me  
> a comment and kudos would be nice ty
> 
> tumblr is onehonoramongstthieves


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again  
> figured i had to complete the cycle...  
> beginning is a bit shit, but it picks up, promise   
> see you in the end notes x

Everything had been going great. 

Lance had found his way in Nicky’s circle of friends. Had slotted in perfectly under George’s lanky arms, above Lando’s curly head, by the crook of Charles’ elbow and against Nicky’s chest. In the jumble of shoving limbs and fidgeting impulses, of explosive edges and mellow temperaments, Lance survived. 

(not just survived. thrived)

Because despite his misgivings, despite their untouchable exteriors - Nicky’s friends were like family. And soon, Lance felt just as comfortable around them as he did with Este and Daniil. When Lando made a particularly stupid joke, Lance let himself laugh, snorting loudly and without shame. When George tripped over the school lunch tables again, or Charles and Max sniped at each other over ridiculous things, Lance joined in the groans and sighs, the shoved shoulders and joking laughs, and Alex’s futile peacemaking attempts. A far cry from the hunched shoulders and silent lips of before, oceans beyond the controlled self conscious laughter of previous days.

It wasn’t all perfect. There were moments, little glitches, short instances where Lance would shrink in on himself, and wonder why they still kept him around. Quick flips where he doubted everything again, when all of insecurities, his anxieties, his fears would tiptoe out. 

But then Nicky would sling his arms around his shoulders, Charles would flash him a smile that he knew not many ever got to see, Max would pass Lance the ketchup without prompting, because apparently he remembered that Lance liked to dunk his chips into enough ketchup to drown them in a blood red sea. And sure, it wasn’t like that was a big secret, but still. Lance didn’t think his own dad knew that. Even if he had, he probably wouldn’t have bothered to remember it, much less to act on it. 

And it worked both ways, too. Nicky became closer to Este and Daniil, until it became a given that at some point during lunch, either Nicky or Lance would drift over to the other’s table and sit with the other’s friend group. Eventually, it got to the point where Lance, Este and Daniil would skip right over their usual table in favour of the table Nicky and his friends frequented, and soon, both boys had created their own spaces in the group. It wasn’t perhaps the most seamless of transitions, sure, but it worked. After an initial misunderstanding, Max and Este slowly started to regard each other with wary respect, to grudging admiration, to an easy, if occasionally stilted, friendship. Daniil had been accepted no problem, despite the lingering malfeasance of old rumours still stubbornly pinned onto him by the rest of the school. Lance had had his misgivings, but there had been no judgement, no sly looks, no nothing at all. 

Just acceptance.

Just friendly smiles and snarky comments and bitchy stares that held no heat, fake threats and genuine hugs. 

Just the secure fact that despite how much they threatened otherwise, they would never actually break into his house and shit on his bed, or knock his lights out behind the Tesco’s parking lot after school.

That they would instead listen when he talked, and remember little things like how he liked his chips.

So, yeah.

Everything had been going great. 

Until it wasn’t.

Until everything stopped going great, and started falling apart. 

Until one night, back at the skatepark, with Este enthusiastically and unsuccessfully joining Max and Charles doing randomly improvised things with skateboards, and Daniil teaching Lando and George a potentially lethal drinking game up by the railings.

Until one night, sitting underneath the streetlight, a golden orange glow setting a synthetic spotlight on the two of them, set apart from the rest.

Until one night, drunk on starshine, teenage rebellion, and the powerful, reckless feeling of being  _ alive,  _ where parents didn’t exist and consequences didn’t matter.

Until one night, where Nicky reached over and kissed Lance.

(Lance had thought he was ready. He thought he was  _ ready,  _ but now he was looking out over the edge, and it was an awfully long fall)

*

Lance didn’t sit where he usually did at lunch the next day. Instead, he dragged a concerned and confused looking Esteban and Daniil to their old table, and spent the whole of lunch studiously not looking over at Nicky’s table. 

Thankfully, Daniil had seen the look on Lance’s face when Este began to question him, and nudged Este to shut up.

Thankfully, for once in his life, Este took his cue, and fell silent, looking anxious but holding quiet.

Thankfully, Nicky didn’t try to come over during lunch.

Thankfully.

(Lance had looked out over the edge, seen the fall that awaited him, and he had taken a step  _ back) _

Over the next couple of days, Nicky made several aborted attempts to speak to him. Lance avoided every single one. After all, it wasn’t hard when Lance knew the school better than anyone. He hadn’t used his old escape routes in a while, hadn’t needed to merge into the shadow paths that whisked him willow light into a ghost of his own making. Hadn’t needed to, because for once in his life he had wanted to be seen. 

Now he would have given anything to melt back into nothing, particles dissolved, spread thin through the air, invisible. Anything to be plain old boring Lance once more, who nobody took notice of, who was a coward, yes, but a coward who was  _ safe  _ under the blankets of disinterest and unacknowledgement. 

Now he was a coward, but a coward shivering under the gaze of brown eyes filled with - remorse? Guilt, pity, shame? Contempt?

(regret?)

Now he was a coward shivering under the knowledge of being seen.

Este and Daniil had tried, on several occasions, to gently coax out what had happened from Lance’s stubborn lips. 

Each time, Lance quietly and pointedly changed the subject. 

It was easier not to admit to what he’d done. 

Easier not to admit that he’d run away from something  _ good. _

(because apparently Lance didn’t just run from the monsters)

(he ran from the heroes too)

(and if that’s not the most cowardly thing you’ve ever heard, he doesn’t know what is)

And every time Lance felt himself flinch away from the one thing that could’ve been  _ good -  _

Every time he pretends he hasn’t made a decision that he knows, he  _ knows  _ will be his biggest regret, the one he’ll lock away tight in a corner of his mind, to take out and admire, after a long, ordinary,  _ average  _ life in which he never exceeded the comfortable limitations placed on him by his father, every time he ignores the reality of what he lost, of what he  _ willing gave up -  _

Every time, Lance felt a little more lost.

Easier to lose yourself than to find your way out.

Easier to back away than to jump.

Easier to doubt than trust he’ll be there waiting to catch you.

(easy, easy, easy)

(Lance always chooses  _ easy _ )

And then they’re walking through the Concourse, turning their way through to their respective classes, when Este stopped suddenly, half turned, arm reaching out in a clumsy attempt to stop Lance. A desperate attempt to delay the inevitable. 

There’s been a new addition to the Concourse walls. 

A rose.

Lance’s heart felt like it had been turned to glass.

Because this rose - 

(his rose)

This rose wasn’t painted in budding pink or blooming red. 

This rose - 

(his rose)

Was carved in charcoal black. Edged at the tips, shaded in wilting browns. Shot through with the undercurrents of fading pink and rusty red, in the dying tones of dulled jewels losing their glow. Grey peaked and ebbed, darkening the limp petals, adding skeletal structure to falling curves and sagging sides, choking the last struggling vestiges of vivacity and life clinging to the centre of each skimmed out petal. Yet still the old aura of grace clung to each line, in the gentle swoop of the dying curve, in the drop of a darkly faded petal. Elegance, humility, sadness, painted into each stroke, each spray. This was a swan song in paint, the bow at the end of an old dance that had been played out too many times before. This was old hands, shaking as they held another for the final time. This was slow decline, and graceful ends. 

Lance felt his glass heart contract.

And then felt it shatter.

White crystal shards.

Glimmering in sunlight.

Dripping in blood.

Buried deep within the breast of a cowardly boy.

White crystal tears, pouring down the face of a cowardly boy, locked into a bathroom on the second floor, shaking as his friends whispered soothing sounds, and  _ breathe, Lance, breathe, it’s okay, we’re here. _

None of them made it to their lessons that day.

Instead, behind the locked door of the second floor bathroom, three boys sat underneath the sinks, on dust and dirt and squeaking linoleum. Three boys sat, and one boy talked.

He talked until his mind was clear, or at least less fogged, until his chest stopped heaving and glass no longer shifted inside of him at every breath. He talked until there were no words left to say, and everything that had built up inside of him was gone, washed out by tears.

And when everything had gone - 

Lance could breathe again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they will get a happy ending, just not today  
> ty for reading, kudos and comments appreciated!
> 
> tumblr is onehonoramongstthieves


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aha... hi... its me...  
> the second part to this chapter is coming soon lol  
> i just wanted to post this bit cos i feel like its been forever and i felt bad so....  
> here u go....  
> enjoy!  
> see you in the end notes x

Esteban and Daniil were worried.

Lance had always been somewhat reserved. Had never been very good with sharing what was going on in his head.

But staying silent about something as big as whatever had gone on with Nicky? To them?

Esteban and Daniil were worried.

But they knew him. They knew that the more they pushed, the further Lance would retreat into his shell. The further away he would withdraw, deeper into pearly walls, safe from the crashing waves of the sea.

So they waited him out, anxiously, patiently, silently giving support where they could, where he’d let them. An extra long hug in greeting. Engaging him in cheerful, banal conversation when his eyes got too far away. Giving him the bigger half of the final cookie. Small, small things. Things they could get away with without Lance closing off completely. Things they could sneak by Lance’s walls, letting him keep his desperate illusion that everything was okay. Letting him pretend that nothing had happened.

But it wasn’t enough.

So Esteban and Daniil worried.

And then.

And then Lance’s pearly walls turned to glass.

And then a dying rose shattered the glass.

And then Lance lay bleeding on the cold floor of a second floor bathroom, and all they could do was hold him and whisper empty promises while his words, locked up for so long, came hitching and sobbing out.

Esteban and Daniil were worried.

So Esteban and Daniil went to figure things out.

*

Max, Alex, George, Charles and Lando were worried.

Nicholas had practically been inseparable from Lance. He’d always been a boy of action, of movement, never been afraid to go for what he wanted. And now, to stop talking to him completely, to keep throwing stricken eyes in his direction, to so obviously desperately want to go over to Lance, yet to keep still? It wasn’t like Nick at all.

But bugging Nicky about it did nothing. All it did was cause Nick to turn away, and mutter something about it not being their business, the far off, brooding expression on his face only intensifying. The boys had had many a furiously whispered conversation about it, and several rapidly typed messages on separate group chats, fractured things that lay half formed for fear of Nick finding them. There were many suggestions wildly thrown out and scattered through these various mediums, most of them abandoned or torn to shreds, but in the end, a half hearted consensus was reached. They had to convince Nick to burn out whatever was bothering him. They had to convince Nick to paint some graffiti. 

In retrospect, looking at the black tipped, aching rose on the Concourse walls the next morning, it might not have been the best idea.

Max, Alex, George, Charles and Lando were worried.

So when Esteban and Daniil came to talk, they listened.

Practice room 31 was rarely used. Tucked up away in the tightest corner of the music school, it was possibly the furthest room away from practice room 18, where Lance might be lurking. Due to its difficult location, and general unpopularity with any budding student musicians, it was most commonly used for a sort of makeshift musical graveyard. Broken stands, lost pages of music fallen loosely from bindings, old instrument cases jettisoned into the depths of the gloom. The leftovers of musical experience took over most of the room which was unfortunate, given the room hadn’t been very large in the first place. This resulted in a peculiar arrangement of Charles balancing on a three legged piano stool, leaning against the wall for stability, Lando perched precariously on a pile on what might have been a drum set once upon a time, George leaning uncomfortably on the door frame, Alex making a sort of nest amongst the sheet music, and Max on top of a blown out speaker. Esteban and Daniil sat at the centre of this unwieldy circle, made even stranger by the serious expression all were sporting. And in the untouched gloom of practice room 31, stories were told, reactions compared, data analysed, and an agreement reached. There was no way Lance would make the first move. To solve this absolute mess of misunderstanding and uncertainty, they would have to get Nicky to talk to Lance.

This proved harder than it seemed.

The boys had renewed their efforts with a vengeance, but this just made Nicholas dig his heels in further. Even telling Nick they knew what had happened had little effect, with Nick, after an initial moment of hesitation, told them that this was precisely why he couldn’t talk to Lance. And from this well of noble intentions, respecting Lance’s space, and sheer pigheadedness, Nick would not budge.

And then Friday morning came around.

And then Principal Stroll called an assembly.

Because apparently, this latest rose, following on as it did from a spate of pieces done in happier times, when Lance and Nick were still talking, was the final straw.

*

Blue plastic squeaked below Lance as he shifted uncomfortably. A chattering hum arose as students came filing in, and the rows began filling up. Soon, the hall would be full and the assembly would begin.

God, it was warm in here. 

Warm, and close, perfect conditions for the anxious feeling of on edge fingers to dance a dragging dance along his skin.  _ Just get this over with. God, just hurry up and get this over with.  _ A chattering hum, grating, scraping across his ears. Lance wished they’d shut up. Lance wished they’d keep talking. Once they fell silent, Principal Stroll would begin, and  _ fuck,  _ Lance didn’t want to hear what he had to say, didn’t want to hear him denounce curving paint and sprayed colours, didn’t want to hear him deride the cause of Lance’s pain, the cause of his joy. 

He wasn’t sure if he could take it, this outpour of salt on the exposed and bloodied mess of his heart.

Lance sat on blue plastic, squeaking underneath him, and waited.

Waited, even though every instinct, primordial and screaming _ , _ was telling him to leave, wise through centuries of knowledge on how to avoid pain.

Waited, because Lance has always been a coward, has always denied himself what he wanted, even (especially) when it caused him pain.

Waited for slow torture.

For the unknowing, leisurely destruction of his heart, of the sacred treasure it kept within.

From father to son.

He waited.

_ Just hurry up and get it over with, please god, hurry up. _

The hall was almost full now, and Lance, Lance just wanted to look around, just wanted to catch Nicky’s eye, just wanted to  _ see  _ him, but he couldn’t.

He couldn’t.

(he wouldn’t)

God, Lance was so  _ tired  _ of  _ not doing anything. _

So tired of not letting himself live in order to survive.

So tired of being stretched, paper thin, over broken pieces of  _ wanting,  _ shattered by his own hand, covered by flimsy control and pierced by self hatred.

So tired of being tired.

Lance wondered how long it would take him to snap.

For the paper to  _ break. _

(and all the little pieces of  _ wanting _ to fall out)

Lance wondered  _ what  _ it would take.

And that was one of the scariest thoughts he’d had in a while.

If Nicky hadn’t been enough to do it.

If Nicky couldn’t pierce the paper, and let all the little pieces of Lance fall out -

_ Then what would _ ?

Could anything?

(or had the paper grown wood thick, leathery and tough, without Lance noticing?)

If that was the case - 

Would he be like this forever?

Would he live denying himself everything, and  _ god that was a nightmare, he couldn’t, he couldn’t let himself become like that, he couldn’t, but what if it was too late, what if - _

The door to the side of the hall opened, the chattering hum subsided, and Principal Stroll walked onstage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .........  
> :)
> 
> come yell at me in the comments xx


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello everyone  
> thank you for making it this far  
> i have struggled a lot with this fic   
> it didn't really go where i expected it to go, but yeah  
> we ended up here  
> but hey, it's only my second multi chaptered fic, ever.  
> so in the end, i suppose im quite proud of it.  
> thank you to everyone who's read and enjoyed  
> and to everyone who's commented and kudosed especially  
> your support means the world so thank you!  
> anyway that's enough waffling so   
> yeah, happy reading and  
> see you in the end notes x

... _ concluding the report on the school playing fields, I would now turn your attention to a topic I fear many of you have been looking forward to with anticipation… _

_....those who would refer to it as “artwork” are unaware of its damaging properties, and perhaps are in need of a greater appreciation of what art actually is… _

_...it is vandalism. Pure and simple. Vulgar, uncouth, and ugly… _

_...I need hardly inform you again that this is an offence punishable by law… _

Lance felt like he was drowning. Drowning, under a large and vast expanse of blue grey water, murky dark at the edges, translucent in patches and starts. That and only that could explain the silent ring in his ears, the muffled blur of words floating towards him, disjointed and distorted through the pushing pressure of a mass of water. The air seemed heavier. Breathing seemed harder. His father kept on talking.

… _ as for this most recent disgrace, it is clear to me that the perpetrator is running out of both originality and steam. This recent rose is not only sloppy, it is an eyesore, and - _

Lance couldn’t  _ breathe. _

Water, so much water, pushing down on his lungs.

_....these petty pieces of childish expression will not be tolerated any further. If the offender finds it necessary to continue to display their emotions in such an underhand and substandard manner, serious action will be taken.... _

Somewhere deep in the murky blue, somewhere in the disorentating, dizzying depths, Lance found a spark of red. 

A kernel of bright, pulsing red.

Lance focused on the red.

When two objects move against each other, there is always bound to be friction. Where there is friction, there is heat. And there comes a point, always a point where that heat becomes too much. Where the heat creates a spark. Where the spark has the potential to create something so much bigger.

Lance was so  _ tired _ of keeping everything inside.

And that red light -

(so  _ warm  _ against the mindless cold of the water, Lance hadn’t even noticed how cold it had been -)

That red light was burning away the paper that wrapped up his broken glass pieces.

And for once in his life, Lance didn’t try to put the fire out.

Instead, he welcomed it. 

Lance burned away his paper thick walls, and in that moment, he no longer cared about what other people thought of him. Of what he had to do to win the barest scrap of his father’s approval. Of what he had to do to go unnoticed, ignored.

He no longer cared about erasing parts of himself to fit into the shadows.

Lance burned away his paper thick walls, and felt the freedom of cleansing fire and clean water lap at his broken pieces.

The fire, buoyed and brightened, spread further into the blue, merging into purple tones, lighting the expanse of blue.

And suddenly, his watery world didn't seem so inescapable anymore.

Didn’t seem so endless.

Lance let the fire wash over him.

Let it consume his fear of failure.

His resignation to it.

His guilt over never being enough.

His need to be invisible.

.... _ vandalism is a serious problem at Racing Point High, and it will not be tolerated, especially not this degrading, unsightly... _

Lance got up and walked out of the assembly hall.

Whispers spread around the assembly hall, ripples from a dropped stone in water, turned heads and craning necks. There was a pause, a small hitch, before a firm continuation to the speech, the only notable difference now an increased furrow between Principal Stroll’s eyebrows. This quietened down the hall somewhat, and assembly resumed. Notices were given, the closing words were said, and the school stood for the departure of Principal Stroll.

The second the words were given in dismissal, Nicky was up from his seat and out of the hall.

As the metaphorical dust settled from his heels, Esteban and Daniil looked at each other. Across the hall, they could see Charles, George, Alex, Max and Lando doing the same thing.

This was either going to be a fucking mess, or a fucking miracle.

*

  
  


Nick found Lance sitting underneath the streetlight next to the park. 

It looked different in daylight. Trees leaning across the wall, weeds poking through the cracks, pavement smooth black with little pebbles scattered over the surface here and there. Little details that completed a bigger picture, less disconnected from reality than the shadows and spotlights of that night where it fell apart.

Lance was waiting for him, phone clutched in hand, presumably remaining there since he’d first sent Nicky the text.

_ -at the lamppost . come find me _

It probably said a lot that Nick knew exactly where he was talking about. He’d been obsessing over that damn lamppost for far too fucking long.

Lance looked up.

Nicky’s breath caught in his throat.

*

The sun shone down, and light reflected in tiny sparks of the broken shards of glass laying at Lance’s feet. 

Nicky was looking at him, and god if that wasn’t terrifying, but Lance’s pieces were already spilled out on the sidewalk to see.

Nicky was looking at him, and silently, Lance willed his glass shards to shine brighter. To dazzle Nicky with sharp edges and crystalline colours, reflective light flashing in white patches.

To be seen.

The breeze picked up, a light stir and with it -

“Why did you leave?”

And it’s out. Out, in the sunlight and the breeze, underneath the trees, over blackened, gum marked concrete. Out in the world, before Nicky could stop himself.

“The hall or after we kissed?”

It’s quiet. A whisper, almost, but less scared. A silvery vein of courage wound through it. And Nicky didn’t know what to  _ say _ , because in reality it’s -

“Both”

And that one word, that one simple word, it lay between them, hanging in the air, rustling slightly in the breeze, immovable in the sun.

Lance took a breath. Slow, steady, measured. 

Focused on the red inside of him. On his fear and his courage, laid side by side.

God, he was terrified.

But he was going to do it anyway.

And that,  _ oh, _ that realisation sent a rush through his body.

Because he was  _ doing  _ it.

Lance took a breath, drew up both his fear and his courage, and spoke.

Even though it scared him.

_ Because _ it scared him.

_ Why did you leave? _

“Because I’ve spent my entire life trying to make myself fit into the background. I’ve spent my entire life trying not to be noticed.”

Another breath, in, out. Shaking slightly.

“Because I was scared that I was trying so hard to be invisible that I’ve actually become it. I was scared that I’d live my life never actually living. Scared that I was losing a good thing, scared that I’d lost a good thing, scared that I had a good thing t **o lose.”** **  
** Lance laughed, shaky, low, an exhale of air, not an expression of humour.

“I was scared,” he admitted, meeting Nicky’s eyes.

Showing off all of his glass pieces.

Letting Nicky admire their curves and edges.

“I’ve never - I’ve never wanted something as much as I want you.” he whispered, a confession he’d never quite voiced before.

“I’ve never been so scared of what I want as much as with you.”

It was so quiet, underneath the lamppost, in between the breeze and the sun, on top of cold baked concrete. So quiet. 

“And I was tired,” Lance swallowed, “tired of listening to him say that about you and the rose, and _us_ , tired of not being seen, not wanting, of not _doing._ So I, I fucking did something, I guess.”

Nicky kept on looking at him, and it was terrifying, and frightening, and  _ exhilarating. _

“I don’t want to be invisible anymore,” he finished, quiet, looking down.

_ So quiet. _

“I don’t know how to help you with that.”

Rimmed with guilt, shot through with desperation. Broken at the edges.

“I don’t know how to help, I don’t know how to -”

“ - to fix me?”

Aching eyes, reaching eyes, and Lance hated the pain he could read in Nicky’s face.

“You don’t need to, Nicky. All you need to do is to see me. And you’ve been doing that since day one.”

_ So, so quiet. _

“I - I want to try this,” Lance admitted,  _ so quiet, _ a breath, a flutter of air.

“ I want to try  _ us.  _ And I, I know what I’m asking you, and I can't promise you that it’s going to be easy. It’s not going to be easy because I, I’m probably going to freak out on you again, I’m definitely going to freak out on you again, and sometimes I’ll just close myself off, because I’m terrified, Nicky, and it’s hard to be brave, but I’ll  _ try  _ and -”

Nicky stepped forward and took Lance’s hand suddenly, cutting off the rising speed of Lance’s halting words.

“It won’t be perfect,” Lance finished, steady, even. “But I want to  _ try. _ I want to try with you.”

Nicky smiled. Impossibly kind, impossibly gentle, and so, so  _ warm _ .

Nicky smiled, and it was the most tender, most hopeful thing Lance had seen in a while.

Nicky  _ smiled,  _ and Lance - Lance felt brave.

“I’m not going to be perfect either,” he said, quiet, still holding Lance’s hand between his own. “I - I’m stubborn, and slow to pick up on signs, and I don’t like following rules, even the ones I probably should, and sometimes I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing, with the graffiti, with school, with - with everything I guess. But if there’s anyone I want to try and figure things out with, it’s you.”

The little red flame, flicking round the burnt ashes of former paper, leapt merrily to Lance’s heart. He could feel it burning happily, could feel the warmth brushing his insides.

“I can’t dive right into this,” Lance said earnestly, “I - I can’t - I won’t be able to just - jump in.”

Impossibly kind, impossibly soft eyes.

“We’ll take this as slow as you want, whatever direction you like. You’re in control, Lance. And if you’re ever lost, if you ever falter, then we’ll figure it out. Together.”

Hands in hands, cradled, held.

Nicky’s hand in his, Lance’s hand in Nicky’s.

Interlinked, conjoined.

Together.

Lance smiled.

*

They were like art, together. Sometimes cracked, bent out of shape by a jutting stone, throwing off the curve of their lines. Sometimes discoloured, by washing rain or baking sun, flaked and patchy. 

They weren’t perfect.

Not by a long shot.

But where there were holes, areas of complete disrepair, there they would repaint. Reinvent, refresh. Work at it, until it was fresh and new, better than before. They would fix it. Together. 

And their colours would shine through.

Jumbled and glorious.

In twisting lines, crossed over and intertwined.

They were breathtaking.

They were beautiful.

They weren’t perfect.

They were art.

They were together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed! let me know what you think?

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos notifications are the only good emails i receive  
> if you see any mistakes, spelling, punctuation, if I say the capital of Poland is Germany, anything!  
> please let me know x
> 
> tumblr is onehonoramongstthieves


End file.
